hard » m. phelps

III|Clarisse

"Um, so what's your name?"

Silence.

"Um, hello?"

I just frowned even more. I felt extremely exposed, not necessarily unsafe, but just plain uncomfortable, riding shotgun with a complete stranger. Even if I tried to put up a fight (and I'm not saying that I didn't, because I did), he could easily squish me between his thumb and forefinger. The car was moving along at a normal speed, abandoning the allies and dark roads.

See, I wasn't exactly a tall person, I was barely 5'4" when I last measured when I was twelve. A wave of nostalgia consumed me, and I could bet that I hadn't grown more than 4 more inches since then, judging by the almost-unnoticeable change of length in my battered grotesque jeans.

So I refused to cave in to his attempts at arising a conversation.

God, he was pissing me off.

"C'mon, please!" he begged once again.

I rolled my eyes at him, eying the calming scenery of much grander houses. I internally sighed, seeing as those had always been my dream homes.

He just parked the car in return, and completely rotated in his seat to face me.

"Look, if we're going to be living together, you have to at least tell me your name. Just so we won't be complete strangers. Consider it repaying the favor. Please," he gave me those puppy eyes and, no, I actually could resist, easily too, but I was simply sick of his constant whining.

"Ugh, fine! My name's Clarisse Dimitrovich and to save you from asking another goddamn question, I am 27, turning 28 sometime soon. Happy now?"

He smiled a geniune smile before restarting the car.

"My name's Michael Phelps. I've just turned 31, so I am older than you, and that means you should respect me," he eyed me smugly.

"Eyes on the freaking road," I grumbled.

"We're here anyways."

My jaw literally dropped as I eyed the house we had parked in front of.

It was a three-storey house, with a massive front yard housing an ancient looking willow tree that was trembling in the light breeze. The backyard was nicely sized, with delicate flowers ranging from pansies and roses to daffodils and lillies. The white patio was huge, and I wistfully thought about our old house back in the early 90's.

The house itself was painted a light baby blue, and the roof was white. The surrounding neighborhood consisted of only a few dozen houses stretched over a couple of streets, and it was completely unpolluted. I had never inhaled such clear and distilled air before. It was magnificently simple.

I was afraid to enter, looking like the ragamuffin I was. I was scared to taint it, and become unwelcomed.

Michael got out of the car and came to my side, opening the door for me. Manners, I would say.

I made it to the front door, and tentatively placed a brown filthy hand on the handle.

His gentle and patient smile encouraged me to enter.

I was shocked. The place's interior design was wonderful. It was very colorful too, judging from the red and blue living room.

I whipped around quickly, and the words escaped my mouth before I could catch them.

"Are you rich?"

"I-I guess.. erm.. yeah, I-I am," he said, obviously flustered by the question.